Deprivation: SnowmanSlick
by mistermakara
Summary: Originally from MSPAchan, the story of the quintessential kismessitude. Contains secks but nothing super porny. :U


He'd briefly forgotten there was a woman in front of him who he'd been trying to end a conflict with. He'd forgotten it wasn't right-a man gets easily distracted in front of someone like her. Even now she was polished, taking some pleasure out of watching the other fall apart as she buried her head deeper, hardly aware of the groans above, but contemplating oddly over what exactly she was doing.

It was a lucky break regardless and he knew it. And to top it off, the night was still young.

He'd been brooding in his office, having told the others not to bother him for a while. Most likely, they didn't understand but they didn't have to. A gang ain't a gang if everybody's huggin' everybody.

He couldn't help but smile at the thought of any trouble tonight. Considering his luck, it was likely he'd have some scuffle, either workable in an hour or impossible even over a night. But for now the evening was his, and he'd be damned if someone stopped.

He slunk over to the other corner of the room, flexing his fingers, when he heard a vague shuffle behind him. Immediately he tensed and turned around, expecting the worst.

The worst was what he got.

"Fuckin 'ell, Snow," he muttered, finding himself stumbling back onto the piano and quickly regaining his balance, only to be shoved back again, this time the tiny, lance-like cigarette holder pressed up against his temple.

"Hold the fuck still," the woman hissed, before backing off a little. "Maybe I won't take your goddamn eye out."

"The hell for?"

"Maybe I knew y'were gonna take it easy tonight," she mumbled, pocketing the holder-there wasn't a cigarette in it. "Maybe you're a fuckin' numbskull who doesn't know shit enough to lock your goddamn door."

He winced.

"I know what you're gonna do," she mumbled, leaning in. "You're gonna try to kill off the entire fuckin' Felt. Not if I can help it, Slick. That's my god damn family you're talking about. You don't even know."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, realizing apologizing was probably the dumbest thing he could do.

Snowman cocked an eyebrow. "You're sorry?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"You've got a lot to fuckin' learn, Slick," she replied, grinning. "You can't just tell a lady she's sorry. You gotta show it."

He paused a moment. "How?"

The other smirked. "You gotta be nice to a lady, I'll tell you that much. You owe me and I owe you for bustin' your eye."

He sighed. "How about I write you a little somethin'. This piano ain't for decoration after all." Almost nervously, he gestured behind him. "Nice little cultural exchange."

"Damn right."

"I'll 'ave it done in an hour, promise."

She grinned, undoing the top button on her jacket and settling her shoulders a bit.

"See you then, Slick. Better doll up a bit."

"...You can call me Jack, if you want." There was a glint in his eye.

"Jack. I like it." She smirked, stretching her shoulders-it must have been impossible with the coat buttoned up all the way. She was gone without another word.

He took a deep breath and sat down at the piano.

She arrived exactly a half hour late. He'd watched the clock perfectly. He thought, with a smirk, that the Felt should always be on time with all those damn clocks. Then he realized it was hardly a laughing matter.

He mumbled these exact words to her, and she said nothing but simply grinned. It was a halfway decent joke.

There was no exchange as he pulled up to the piano, flexed his fingers, and began.

She watched him carefully, hands behind her back. Halfway through she lit up, and looked like she was going to examine her nails for a moment, but otherwise had her eyes locked on him the entire time.

When she was done, she stubbed out, and flicked the ashes in his questioning face, smirking.

"Pretty slick, Jack. Didn't know you had any talent."

"Gotta make up for something," he mumbled, wiping them out of his face with the back of his arm, smearing the sleeve of his jacket.

"So I reckon I owe you now?"

"If you think the song was that good."

"No, I mean for bustin' your eye."

He smirked. "Oh. I suppose."

"Gimme some options."

"That's not fair, I came up with this on my lonesome."

"I'd prefer a man who knows what he wants."

He chuckled, beckoning her over. She perched on the piano bench.

"I know what I want," he said, "I just wanna hear you offer it."

"How'm I s'posed to know?" Snowman grinned, staging a mock coy expression before reaching out and slowly running a finger down his forearm. "Gimme some options. I've yet to hear the deal."

He leaned in and whispered in her ear, chuckling.

"Pretty fuckin' blunt," she said, a grin spreading across her fate. "Can I get something a bit more polite?"

"You said you wanted a man who knew what he wanted," he replied, watching her play with the bottom button of her jacket. "That's what y'got."

"Fair enough," she replied, and promptly dug her nails into his thigh, moving down from the bench and kneeling. He winced at first, but his high tolerance for pain made up for it and he slowly began to enjoy the touch of her hands. The delicateness was lost after she unzipped his fly and began fishing around, deliberately talking her time before pulling out his member.

"Can't see your fuckin' mug but I hope you're enjoying this," she mumbled, running her tongue across the tip.

He inhaled sharply, cracking his knuckles above her and outstretching his legs. The heel of his shoe dug into the ground as she continued her mouthwork , finally taking him in, awaiting any noise from above. Finally she got a groan from above, and she felt a finger run down her back. She found herself gagging a moment, feeling that odd liquid inside her mouth. Gasping for breath, she pulled back, wiping at her mouth and snickering, before she glanced up at his face.

He was panting, hanging onto the edge of the bench and his back resting against the wall. His hips were arched, hungry for what was to come.

She stood up, grinning and pacing towards him, settling in his lap.

"Now we're even."

"Not quite."

The cellar door slammed. She stood for a moment, leaning against the wall, listening for any possible sound. Nothing but a bit of shuffling and cursing, of course. Nothing special. You couldn't bear to see his face, really, but it must have been a little exciting.

You avoid the blood on the floor, much less what's left of his arm. Perhaps it was a bit over the top.

You slide your cigarette into the holder and take in a deep breath-perhaps too big a drag, and it sends that burning feeling into your chest.

You turn, leaving behind all evidence, and stalk over to the main room in the manor.

Flexing your fingers, you sit down at the piano.


End file.
